


The Menagerie

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Burlesque Club, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Background Aradia Megido, Background Calliope, Background Jade Harley, Background Kanaya Maryam, Background Nepeta Leijon, Background Relationships, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Camp Nanowrimo, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Horn Stimulation, Light Dom/sub, Minor Character(s), Minor Kanaya Maryam/Vriska Serket, Multi, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Quadrant Confusion, Sex Work, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-01 05:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: "Delight the Senses and Indulge the Appetites in the Finest Pleasure Parlour in the City!""Food and Drink Unparalleled, the skill of our Companions and Performers at your behest!""To those who seek its wonders, The Menagerie opens its Doors"(Camp NaNo - April 2019 entry)





	1. Tickets please

**Author's Note:**

> Posted a little late, unfortunately. I'll try to catch up.
> 
> Set in an alternate universe in some vaguely Late 19th/Early 20th Century time period, probably kind of modeled after Victorian London but it's ruled by trolls and the troll Empress.
> 
> India, Texas, and France presumably exist, probably also other places, it's not really clear where or when this is due to the introduction of trolls. Other setting details aren't really thought out here, as this is kind of a Moulin Rouge type of AU.
> 
> Please enjoy! Happy Camp NaNo 2019!
> 
> (Also if I miss a tag, feel free to tell me.)

The pamphlet is neatly printed, the colours glossy and glamorous, or as glossy and glamorous as something advertising a place like this can be at least. The entryway to the building itself, The Menagerie, is surprisingly unobtrusive: A single wooden door, with a closed slot at about eye-level, and a bronze knocker.

To be honest, if it weren't for the address, and the black ribbon tied around the door's knocker (and even the implications of that much leave you much hotter under the collar than such a cool evening begets), you would never know what you were looking at, or where you are.

Or, well. Perhaps if you were someone else, you wouldn't know. As it stands, you're here with a specific purpose in mind.

Your name is Equius Zahhak, and if word ever got out that you were personally visiting such a den of iniquity, your already fragile reputation would be _thoroughly_  tarnished.

But you have it on good authority- the word of your dear moirail, even- that this is the place you've been looking for. 

You're having second thoughts, of course. And third thoughts, and fourth.

Fiddlesticks.

You pat at your shining face with a kerchief that's just about begging for mercy at this point, and stride purposely up the stone steps. You smell perfume and incense, presumably to mask other smells in such a place (and that makes you sweat even more; you're going to ruin your shirt _and_  your waistcoat, goodness) but your hand only shakes a little bit as you reach out and take hold of the knocker. The heavy bronze feels solid and cool under your fingers, weighty as you raise it to knock.

You hesitate again at the apex of the knocker's reach, and remind yourself that you need to make this quick. 

You knock thrice.

The board over the slot slides out of the way, a pair of startlingly red eyes peering out at you. In fact you're so surprised that you nearly rip the door off its hinges, but even in the low light, the scleras are undoubtedly white as a boiled egg.  You're not sure if your sigh is of disappointment or relief, that you're facing a human here and now.

Of horse- _of course_ , it wouldn't be quite so easy to find who you're looking for just like that. Nepeta wouldn't have gone through so many hoops for it to be so easy, and you doubt you would have to do any less.

You'll just have to press on then.

"Blueblood, huh? Don't think we ever had anyone over cerulean here." The human drawls. You know the accent, sort of; he comes from far across the sea, in one of the city-states still under human rule in the New World. Texas, perhaps. He clicks his tongue. "What are you after?"

"What am I... after?" You hadn't considered this part. Or, you have, but now you're here and you don't know how to phrase it, at least. You're after an obsession, or a fleeting dream, or someone who can convince you to let it go. 

The human doesn't seem amused by your lack of response. Your throat dries up.

"Look, we get it, really. Maybe not your colour, but we get a lot of your type around here, and we have a pretty comfortable setup not revealing personal details to the general public. Call it Client Confidentiality." You blink at him, slowly. He doesn't sigh, to his credit, but the silence feels like he wants to. "Tell me what you want and I'll open the door; it's how it works."

You hesitate a little more, wringing out your kerchief and patting at your face again.

"How do I know you'll have what I want?"

"You wouldn't be here if we didn't."

Well. It's not a _convincing_ argument, but you don't have a rebuttal in mind, and at this juncture you don't need more convincing.

"Whisper it to me if you have to." He says, and maybe your will isn't as strong as you like to tell yourself it is.  You lean forward and murmur to him your dirty little secret: The troll who haunts your daymares with red eyes and redder blood, a voice that makes you think of the crackle of a fire one moment and the boom of a cannon the next. You recall claws biting into your shoulders, and a growl of your name in your ear.

"Bit more poetic than I was expecting, but alright." The slot closes and you flush, mortified. Did you say that out loud?

You think you can hear muttering on the other side, and another voice joins the human's. The slot opens up again, a different pair of eyes peering out at you- red, but not the red you seek, long lashes the colour of poppies and strawberry stains- before the slot closes again and the door finally creaks quietly open on surprisingly thick-looking hinges.

The light is warm and amber, chasing away the outdoors chill. You hurry inside.

"Welcome, monsieur; would you like some refreshments before anything is discussed?" She smiles at you, a maroonblood with curly horns, not unlike a kangaram lusus, and dimples in her round, almost wrigglerish cheeks. "But of course, first, may I take your coat?"

You almost balk from her when she suggests it, but you remind yourself where you are, and what things are like now. You're not a pupa, for goodness' sake, and it's not exactly _fashionable_ to be so stringent in the consideration of caste like it was back in the center of the Empire. 

If she notices, she doesn't show it, though you think her accent and her manner are probably entirely fake, so it's not hard to believe any courtesy she shows you is just as affected. You carefully unbutton your coat- you don't want to tear a button off like you did when you were younger, it would make it too easy to mark where you've been- and hand it to her. The navy silk and silver buttons look foreign and strange in her warm hands, like a stolen thing. 

You remind yourself that you came here of your own volition. It would be easy to blame your moirail, but you're a troll, not a pupa.

"This isn't exactly something I do often." You say, as she folds up your coat and puts it in a marked locker. When she comes back, she hands you a little piece of cardstock with a number on it; you awkwardly put it in your waistcoat's front pocket. She nods understandingly, and you feel the need to make sure. "I don't do this at all, to be clear. I'm here on the..." Recommendation? Hm. Perhaps not. "Ah, gentle suggestion, of my moirail."

"Of course, monsieur." She winks at you. You wonder if she expects something for that. "Mister Strider here will take you to the second floor, then, where you can unwind for a bit, get used to the atmosphere. We have a few shows scheduled throughout the evening, and if you decide you want to get to know any of the performers a little better, you can be _formally_ introduced." 

Her voice drops to a sultry purr as she says it, and it doesn't take much imagination to guess what she means by a _formal introduction._ You feel yourself sweating a little more, though at least in the warmth of the building itself, you can pretend it's entirely due to that.

"If that will be all, I hope you have a pleasant little adventure. Now, please excuse me, there are other guests to attend to." She says, and ducks out of the room.

You can hear her murmuring to someone through the wall, the room separated from the reception area only by a heavy, velvet curtain that looks like it was cut from a stage. A door clicks closed, and the reminder that there are still other people in the building sends a chill up your spine. 

Strider gives you a quick once-over and looks thoroughly unconvinced. "Promise you'll behave yourself in there?"

You gulp, dryly. "I'll be on my best behoovior."

He snorts. You realize what you've just said, and mentally kick yourself. 

"Charming, really." He says, maybe as a way of getting your mind off it; it has to be his job around here, if he's in charge of leading you where you need to go. He turns around, heading towards the staircase to your left, and leans on the railing when you fail to follow. "Well? Come on up, big boy, the party's upstairs."

Of course. Yes. Somehow the fact that he's telling you where to go makes this slightly more real, and therefore slightly more dangerous. You find that you don't mind the thought of that nearly as much as you should, as you nod and follow him up the steps. You hear things through the walls now, muffled still but growing steadily louder: Chatter, the clink of glasses, laughter. Music bleeds through all of it, and you're not sure if you hear lyrics but it definitely sounds _daring_ , to say the least.

Strider stops you before another door, looks you over, and casually reaches between the two of you to arrange your tie into something a little less formal. You would call it maybe rakish, and in fact perhaps downright sloppy, though the way he picks at it, you know he's being exceedingly careful about just _how_  sloppy.

"Er." You don't know what to say. Once more you pat at your face with your kerchief, and you think to yourself that you regret not bringing more than one on such an endeavour.

"The point of this is to relax, you know." He says, finally retracting his hands and wiping his palms on his hips. "You know how to do that, right?"

Your eyes follow his hands, maybe too eagerly, and you're glad for the dark lenses you always wear to human establishments; you wear them to hide the bruises under your eyes and ease the strain of so much light, but it seems they have another purpose in a place like this. Relaxing isn't going to be easy.

"I promised before that I would be on my best behaviour." You say. You pause. "... But perhaps this is the sort of place that begets a little something different than one's best."

You think you can see the faint ghost of a smile twitch in the corner of his mouth. It's gone the next second; he nods and opens the door for you, and you force yourself to release some of the tension in your neck and shoulders. 

The music hits you like a wall, as does the smell of perfume, the sound of clinking glasses, music. Dim, coloured lights dance in your vision, and you think that might be smoke or vapour, curling like fog around your feet. You might have to remove your lenses if you're going to see where you're going. You can feel the strain creeping back up your spine if you don't pay enough attention.

"Hey. The door's _open_." He doesn't have to say it like that. You're nervous enough as it is. "Come on, you're letting the heat out." 

He presses something into your hand: A paper and silk mask, stiff and fitted to go over one's eyes and nose. The pattern isn't moulded to anything in particular, or perhaps it's just that you lack the imagination to see it. At some point he'd tied a mask over his own face, one that widens his eyes and lengthens his nose, framed with sleek, black feathers. A crow, or perhaps a raven.

He places a hand over the small of your back- his touch is hot, almost searing, even through the thin fabric separating your skin- and guides you through the door. You have but a moment to actually fasten the mask over your eyes before a different kind of heat washes over your face, this time not the kind that comes from your own flushing blood. The perfume smell is stronger here, and you were right: There's something else under it, subtle and intoxicating, and undeniably sensual.

Strider clears his throat practically right next to your ear, audible even through music and your own heart thudding in your head. 

"Pay up downstairs if you're about to leave or if you want to take someone to a room, and if you try to get handsy with the staff, it costs extra." He says. He pats you on the shoulder a couple times, the weight grounding you for a few seconds in your own body. 

Then, just  like that, you're left unmoored as he pushes himself away from you. When you turn to look for him, he's already gone, disappeared somewhere in the room. You have no doubt that he's keeping an eye on things until he's needed once more downstairs.

Things have just gotten that much more complicated. Much more complicated than you'd given yourself the chance to prepare for, evidently, as you'd expected much less in the way of, ah, _foreplay_. You might even allow yourself to curse _outright_ in such circumstances; you're certain nobody could blame you.

You hate to think of the state you're in right now. You sweat considerably at the best of times, and this is far from your best. You're at least thankful that the place isn't quite so crowded as you'd imagined it would be: There's plenty of room to walk around, and plenty of places to sit. The heat rises up to your ears, perhaps even up to your horns, as you tuck your lenses into your waistcoat pocket alongside the piece of card the maroonblood from downstairs gave you. Examining the occupants of the room doesn't help. You don't recognize anyone, but you're not sure if they don't recognize you.

Everyone is masked, so you don't feel like you've been singled out at least. The guests wear masks exactly like yours, simple affairs of paper and silk, while the courtesans- and they must be the courtesans- have elaborate, animal-like affairs, some even in costume (for a given value of the word.) 

You still feel like you're not getting enough air. Perhaps it was mercy on Strider's part, loosening your clothes. You walk, stiffly, towards a window, in some attempt to get a little fresh air. There's a balcony, but you know enough about this sort of establishment to avoid it; instead, you find yourself an empty seat, and try to ignore the bawdy laughter the show is reeling in from the crowd.

If nothing else, you can pass the time here to appreciate the art of it, even if it's in such a place. A server hands you a drink- it's tonic water, but that suits you just fine- while another pushes a small saucer of fried nuts onto your table. Applause erupts around you as the performer takes a bow, trotting off the stage with a swish of the long, dyed feathers in her skirts. 

The curtain falls, the next show is announced. You recognize the stage name: The one Nepeta had mentioned. The one you might be looking for, if you're very lucky, or perhaps, if you're very unfortunate indeed.

Suddenly you're nervous again; you sip your drink, wishing it was something a little harder, as you settle in to see this mysterious Bengal.


	2. Tiger Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting real tired of my wordcount being a day later than I want it to be.

You are now Bengal.

That's not really your name, if it wasn't clear before. You're Karkat Vantas, though there aren't many people who call you Karkat anymore and just about  _nobody_  who calls you Karkat Vantas, which is just the way you like it.

You don't entirely remember what your stage name is about, something about tigers and stripes you think, and a comment from Dave about cats and their claws. Your claws are generally trimmed these days, but you wear sharp-looking fingercaps for your performances anyway, so the effect is still there even if you're about as sharp as a river stone as of late.

Speaking of performances.

"Is Vriska off the stage yet? That woman would do encores all night if we let her, I swear." You complain, as you draw a thick, sharply-pencilled border of black around your eyes anyway. You have to keep checking in the mirror if they're even, and to your eternal frustration, they never are. You pout at your reflection, drawing stripes on your cheeks. "Nobody is going to get a close enough look at my face to see this, right?"

"Well she is just about to wrap things up right now, so to speak, so I doubt the idea of her upstaging you would be anything to worry about." Kanaya says, fluffing your hair and teasing the curls out into something resembling a purposeful style. She purses her lips and adjusts the caps hiding your horns, transforming them into a pair of rounded ears, and reaches down to help you set the lines on your face with a fine layer of talc.

"I'm not worried." You answer her, sliding full-finger claw rings onto your hands. "The woman is a harpy. Getting me on that stage, even in a cage, is going to be a relief." They make it a little hard to _use_  your hands, but you won't really need to while you're on the stage. Your face in the mirror looks back at you as you paint your lips a light-sucking black, the makeup bringing out something untrollish in your face.

Not so untrollish that it isn't still you, of course; just enough to make it mysterious while you're on-stage. Kanaya puts the finishing touches on your makeup, and then hands you your mask. She smiles. "I suppose that must be true; she might be the highest earner, but I doubt that as anything to do with good taste."

You can hear Jane announcing that the next show will be in another five minutes, a short intermission where the guests can maybe wind down from Vriska's routine. "A round of applause for the lovely Paradise!" She says, and you can hear the whooping and clapping even from where you sit.

You frown, turning your head to look up at Kanaya. "You're not still bitter she dumped you, are you?"

"She did not _dump_  me." She sniffs, uncapping a bottle of perfume and dabbing a couple drops on your neck. It smells like sandalwood, you think, but you can't identify anything else. Someone else might. "We had a disagreement and now the relationship is on hold."

You feel a swell of pity, pale as a pearl. "Hey." You put a hand over her knuckles. "I give you a lot of shit and all, but you can tell me if-"

"This is _not_  the time for a feelings jam." She snaps. But she doesn't pull her hand away, lacing her fingers between yours. "You are my friend, not my moirail. It would be wrong of me, burdening you with something like that."

You want to, but you don't argue with her this time, because the devil herself just flounced through the curtain. The bells and beads of her costume shimmer and rattle even in the soft light of the vanity mirror.

"Gossiping about me again?" She huffs, flushed blue all over with exertion. Her grin practically reaches her ears, though; slightly lopsided but otherwise unbearably smug. She sidles up to the two of you and parks her ass on a pile of discarded fabrics, crossing her legs so she can start undoing the laces of her sandals. "You two should get a room already; I know Kanaya and I didn't work out as a moirallegiance but come oooooooon, Karkat, isn't it kind of scummy to be coming in on the rebound like that?"

Kanaya flushes for an entirely different reason, her back ramrod straight and her eyes narrowing as Vriska, obliviously, picks at her teeth with a pinkie nail you could stab someone with. You roll your eyes and fasten your mask over them so it isn't too obvious, and do some last-minute adjustments to your costume. The fur coat is heavy around your arms as you stand, and entirely too warm, but at least it won't stay on for long.

"I'm not going to try to get between whatever drama happened with you two tonight, alright? Don't drag me into it, I don't want to hear a word of it, and don't insinuate that I'm trying to move in on Kanaya's quadrants when I'm trying to be a supportive friend. You know, like you evidently forgot how to do." Kanaya looks forlornly between the two of you, but whatever she's about to say, she holds her tongue. Vriska has no such sense of propriety and snorts, loudly and unattractively.

"Whatever. Get on the damn stage." She says. 

You flip her off over your shoulder as you make your way to the stage itself, passing by a couple other performers getting ready to get on there with you.

~!~

Just as well that Jane has returned to announce you, just as you peek through the curtains, so you get back there and get behind the wrought-iron bars that act as your "cage".

You sprawl across the pillows as colored vapor slides across the floor and the music slows to a stop, plunging the room into anticipatory silence. Languidly, almost lazily, the curtains part and the stage lights dim into jewel purples and bottle greens, just as the slow, heavy beat begins to play and a few gentlemen in the audience whistle and call your name.

You breathe in, and you breathe out, and you slink across the stage on hands and knees. The dappled light melts into the stripes you're wearing, like you're half there and half not, until you can slide out of the coat as the tempo picks up.

There are new faces in the crowd tonight. Jane's crooning voice accompanies your movements, and you make sure to make eye contact with a few familiar ones- the seadweller with the brooch at his throat, the Dersite with a scar crawling down one side of his face- and with the shy new face in the back of the crowd, the one watching you like you really are a tiger prowling a cage.

Well, when you think about it...

No, not like a tiger. He doesn't look at you like an animal, or a curiosity, or something to be devoured. You would call that expression awestruck, or terrified, or maybe a little constipated. He looks uncomfortable just being here, but he can't tear his eyes away from you.

He looks like he thinks you'll eat him alive if he looks away. You have to admit, it's a pretty nice ego boost. Nice to know you still have that effect on people who haven't seen you before.

You reach through the bars, beckoning and threatening along with Jane's lyrics, and pull away as one of your accompanying dancers "whips" you with a ribbon of black paper. The cage is opened up and you prowl out onto the stage proper, "restrained" from attacking the audience with, of course, more ribbon. 

It goes on that way until it doesn't. You keep glancing at that stranger in the back, and you think, he looks hauntingly familiar, but you don't remember much of anyone with a broken horn; you almost misstep, and really, you're better than that.

The finale has you moving a lot faster, sort of being pulled around and sort of dragging people around the stage with you; the ribbons fall away easily, torn through with barely any effort, though you have to act like it's actually posing some resistance while, you know, posing yourself. At some point you're almost entirely covered by grasping hands, and then you go down, pushed flat on the stage until you shed another article of clothing. 

You hear cheers every time you lose a bit of cover, almost drowning out Jane's singing; hungry eyes and hungrier voices, all clamouring for your body. At least a couple of them won't be satisfied with just watching: You can see Dave flitting through the crowd, ducking by tables to discuss who might want to spend a little extra time with you after the show.

Are you hoping he drops by the new guy's table? Perhaps. You've long ago stopped feeling guilty about that, just as Dave's learned to let it go.

You can't just prance around the stage forever, though; it's over almost before you're fully conscious of it, and you're giving the audience a sassy little bow. You're also just about naked except for your mask, your shoes, and your rings. You're not sure if you should count the skimpy little bit of cloth around your hips as any sort of clothing, but you suppose it covers up what matters for what little modesty these people pretend they have.

Dave gives you a little nod from the crowd, which you would have missed if you weren't looking for it, and holds up one finger: Only one person tonight has decided your price is right.

You would frown if you weren't still on the stage. Vriska always gets at least four for a performance, and you just know she's going to be _insufferable_  later.

"And wasn't that just the cat's meow, everyone; I'd say our lovely Bengal here deserves a round of applause! And whoever might be interested in spending a little more time with him this evening, we'll be making arrangements upstairs; now..." Jane announces the next intermission and you blow a kiss to the audience, slinking your way backstage again. You'll have to wash up and reapply your makeup immediately, get dressed up again in something someone else can get off of you, get these stupid little horncaps off your head already...

Dave surprises you by pulling you aside into a shady little alcove behind the curtains and catching you in a kiss before you can make a sound. Your masks are knocked slightly askew by it, but he runs his tongue along your lips and you find yourself not really caring about that part; you wrap your arms around his shoulders and suck on his lower lip, pushing your own tongue into his mouth while he moans.

You break off the kiss first, but not before he nips gently at the corner of your mouth. He readjusts his mask while you just untie yours, shaking a bit of sweaty hair out of your face.

"You always have to make sure to get the first kiss of the evening, huh?" You tease him, as he finally pulls away from you.

"You know me; if it weren't just the first one, it'd be all of them." He gestures towards the dressing room again, where some of the other workers are still getting ready for the next show. "I'll help you get ready."

"You're angling for an excuse to keep touching me is what you're doing, but I can't say I really mind." You flick the end of his mask's beak, just enough to skew it again.

"Don't try to over-analyze me, that's Rose's job. Besides, that's not all I'm angling for." You chuckle as he tries to straighten up and then gives up and takes the mask off. But you follow him into the dressing room, giving his ass a squeeze through his slacks. Knowing glances get thrown your way, some teasing, some exasperated, but either way the intermission ends and you have a few minutes to fool around before you actually do need to be in your room, and it's pretty quiet in here _during_ a performance anyway, while the others are busy elsewhere.

He rubs your back while you pour water in a bowl, and moves up to your shoulders while you soak a towel in the water and wipe off as much of the sweat, grime, and smeared makeup as you can. You look tired in the mirror, but not so tired that you can't keep going just yet. 

Dave takes the cloth from your hands while you remove your rings. You're drying your hair when he presses another kiss to your neck, lingering this time on the crook of your shoulder, arms around your waist as he leans his weight against you. His lips travel a little further up, pressed to your skin all the while until he reaches your ear.

You squirm, but not away from him, as he sucks on the lobe. His hands roam a bit in turn, fingers teasing at grubscars, nipples, the scar across your left hip. You shiver.

"Try not to be _too_  saucy with him, wouldn't want this place's reputation brought down by some repressed old geezer with too much to spend keeling over because my boyfriend was too hot to handle. They'd call in some kind of detective about it, or worse, a reporter. Then I'd never get you alone." He purrs, hands on your thighs while you fix up your blush. 

"I'll do my best, but I don't think this place has the kind of reputation that could be brought down by that, anyway." You shrug, turning your head to give him another kiss. You're the one leading it this time, pulling him closer when he tries to pull back, tongue plunging past his teeth. 

When you pull away, there's a smear of your lipstick on his mouth. He sighs against your lips as you pull him close again, turning in your seat so it's easier to hold him. His hands knead at your thighs, then your hips, and then your ass through the thin little wrap around your waist. It'd be so easy to just snap it right off, blow off a little steam before you have to get back to work. You're tempted to take hold of his wrist and guide him to the little knots holding the thing in place.

It isn't going to happen, though; both of you know as much. Besides; he's the one who breaks the kiss this time, though you tell yourself it's only because there's a knock on the door. 

Dave straightens up, but you grab hold of his lapels and kiss him one more time, then tug him lower to murmur in his ear. "I'll be waiting for you. Bring extra sheets and some strawberries."

"You'll ruin the sheets with those, you monster. It's gonna look like murder up there." He smiles, one of the rare little smiles only you get to see, and disappears out the door past Kanaya. You're already fixing up your lipstick, cleaning up the smears around your mouth.

"You realize I could hear everything through that door, right?" She says, pinching your cheek like a fond human auntie. 

Regardless, you're ready for work again in five minutes flat, and you have time to spare when you get there. You take the time to imagine what your lover of the evening will be like as you wait, trying your damnedest not to be tempted by the tray of fruit and candy you're supposed to be sharing with them.

Well, they won't miss _one_  bit of nectarine, right?

Of course it's just as your will fails you that you hear murmuring outside. You hurriedly put down the slice of nectarine you were holding and arrange yourself across the pillows, just as the door creaks open and you get a first look at him. You smile, practiced and easy, and fight down the sudden flash of memory right in the back of your mind.


	3. Tiger Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I probably shouldn't mention where my wordcount goals are RIP
> 
> EDIT APRIL 7, 2019:  
> I don't know what to tag it as but Karkat does step (albeit lightly) on Equius' bulge in this chapter.

You are once more Equius Zahhak, and you can scarcely believe what you've just done.

Surely, this courtesan, this Bengal, isn't the one you've been searching for this entire time. _Who_  you've been searching for. It must have been panic on your part, to agree when Strider seated himself across from you. Clever of him to strike up conversation as Bengal whirled and writhed across the stage like liquid smoke, or a devouring flame.

It happened so fast that, really, you're still a little confused. At some point you must have agreed to something Strider said, because you were given a key, a pat on the back, and then instructions for where to go after the show. You assume there was an agreement about how much you'd be spending, which doesn't worry you nearly as much as it probably should.

Now you're here, standing in front of what must be Bengal's private room. An elaborate miniature tapestry depicting a tiger, prowling among vines and ferns, hangs beside the door.While you don't hear anything behind the door itself- you're thankful for that much- you're not sure if it's because nothing is happening, or all you can hear is your blood is rushing to your head.

Well, that second part is disproven nicely a moment later. You hear someone cough behind you, quite loudly in fact, and just about jump out of your skin. Except you don't do that, and instead you tense up so hard you can feel the buttons of your waistcoat and the shirt  beneath it straining against the movement.

Fiddlesticks twice over.

You turn, fixing up your clothes as you do so, and the troll who'd been standing behind you coughs again; delicately, this time, as if she were pretending she hadn't been the one to make the earlier noise. You're surprised it took that much for her to sneak up on you.

You have a sudden and incredibly pressing awareness of where you are, and what it looks like you're presumably here for. You can't blame her for any assumptions she might make- you have the key to the door in one hand, after all- but it still brings a deep, shameful blush to your face.

"This might come as a surprise, but it is quite alright if you refrain from acting like this is some great secret." She says. Her tone is clipped and even at every word, and you're not sure if she's being friendly, sarcastic, or mildly condescending. In all honesty it could be all three. 

"Er," You don't really have anything to say, when you think about it. You could pat at your face with your handkerchief again, but you don't think the poor thing has any space left to absorb the sweat dripping steadily down the side of your face.

She gestures at the door. "Well, go on, we made sure everything in there is prepared and it would be a waste if you failed to make use of it. Or is that your issue, that you have second thoughts, or do you have a problem down below?"

Now you're sure she's mocking you, but instead of filling you with indignation, it fills you with shame. Not the kind of shame that would be appropriate either- you haven't felt like this since you were six sweeps old. It's electrifying, in an illicit sort of way. Is she supposed to be back here? You feel your bulge stirring as she looks down with an expression of disgust; if you were having problems getting it out before, you aren't now.

"I apologize." She says, in a way that makes it clear she's doing nothing of the sort. "But you shouldn't keep Bengal waiting. You _did_ pay for his time, after all."

"Ah- I, yes." You gulp, trying to slot the key into the door. You pause. "Er, thank you."

You aren't sure she says anything after that; you think you might hear her hurrying away, actually, but your mouth is dry and your hands are cold, and you're starting to regret, perhaps, not having something a little stronger than tonic water this entire time.

The door clicks as it unlocks and you take a deep breath, your hand on the handle so tense you can feel your knuckles straining. But the door opens easily, and you step inside and look up to take in the details. 

The room smells of sandalwood, and the light from hanging lamps in the corners of the room lends everything a red-gold glow, surprisingly easy on even your sensitive eyes. The walls are draped with curtains, warping the shadows and shrinking the room further. You could call it intimate, or claustrophobic; it really depends on what might happen next.

Bengal lounges in the middle of a pile of cushions with a plate of nectarines, maskless now, smiling up at you in a way that makes heat tighten in your guts. More than simple lust, though- and you can't deny that there is lust _now_ \- you feel the distinct, hungry heat of pitch, all the way from your gut to your throat. You straighten your back and run a hand through your hair, trying to look more put together than you feel. 

"You're looking a little tense." He says. He doesn't get up from the pillows, but he does raise one of the little platters for you. Where did a place like this get nectarines? Perhaps there's more to the secretive little pamphlet than you'd assumed. "You know, we're supposed to share these. It'd be a shame if they went to waste..."

You bristle slightly, the heat suddenly oppressive. Still, you should probably say something; but what can you say? You didn't think you would even find him here, let alone get this far.

There's a lot you _should_ say, for certain; it's been three sweeps since you last saw him, three sweeps since he disappeared, three sweeps since you realized you couldn't get him out of your head. It's been three sweeps since a mutantblood soldier named Karkat Vantas found you sick and dying in that dense, forsaken jungle in the New World, far from Alternia and far from the true grasp of the Empire, where he could have easily slit your throat and called it mercy.

You've spent three very, very long sweeps resenting him for having the audacity to save your life. But that's not exactly something you can say to him now.

"You've been standing there for a while, you know. I get that the line is a terrible goddamn cliché, but I don't bite unless you want me to." And here he is, smiling up at you in a way somehow both brazen and coy, still offering up that plate of fruit. He lowers his hand and picks up a slice, bringing it up to his mouth, tongue swiping across the exposed side. You find yourself frozen as you watch his lips close around fruit flesh, juice dripping down his chin as he takes a bite.

"I never thought I'd see you again." You say. It isn't really a conscious thought on your part; you would almost be content to stand here in silence and watch him like a pitch-struck fool. But you catch up with yourself. "I realize you might not remember me, of course, but you made quite the impression before you... disappeared."

He takes another bite, finishes the slice, and sits up; when he looks at you his eyes are narrowed so intently that you half-expect your flesh to sear off your bones.

"And who would you be to me, then?" He asks. You feel that same heat stir in your guts again; gone is the sultry purr, the affected softness, replaced instead by a sharpness you could never forget. "Who the _fuck_  do you think you are?"

You remain where you are even as he puts down the plate and picks himself up- you would avert your eyes if it seemed reasonable at a time like this- though when he comes within clawing distance you instinctively take a step back until your back hits the door. He stalks towards you with the kind of purpose and presence you could only expect of a former soldier, even one hatched with such traitorous blood.

(And perhaps you don't do quite as well as you'd like in hiding your desire now, because his eyes drop down to your bulge for a second before he's right in front of you. The fire in that look he gives you threatens to consume you.)

"You're the one who came here, to this whorehouse, to my quarters, all this fucking way, paying to have your way with me or maybe for me to have my way with _you._ " He growls, sending a shiver up your spine. "But just because you're paying doesn't mean I have to put up with some- some delusional  _stalker_  from three sweeps ago."

He's almost a head shorter than you and he makes you want to _kneel,_ and in a way that's certainly unlike you, makes you want to push him further.  You can't help but smile, crooked, shaky, maybe nervous or maybe pleased. He bares his teeth at you and you could kiss him. (You could, if you wanted; and you want to, but you want him to _make_ you.)

"What the fuck are you smiling about?" He hisses. You're still pressed up to the door, feeling so exposed even though he's the one dressed in so little. You tug at your collar.

"You remembered me after all." Your voice comes out barely a whisper. You drink in his confusion, the dawning realization that comes after it. Your smile widens just a crack, creaking in your cheeks. "I don't exactly know if you've disappeared more than once, but..."

He goes quiet, letting the words trail off into the air between you. You're not sure how to feel, watching him as his entire demeanor softens; maybe he's just getting back into character, because he steps away from you again and sits cross-legged in his nest of pillows, regarding you with his chin cupped in his hand and his arm resting on his knee.

"What do you want from me?" He asks. The way he says it is so businesslike, so matter-of-fact, that you almost miss the tremor of genuine anger beneath it. He sneers, every word dripping with vitriol. "Can't wait to hear what excuse you've got for tracking down a mutant who tried so hard to disappear after the first time. I hope the idea was just to get your bulge wet because that's all you're getting from me."

Ah, yes, that. That's all the reminder you needed, actually; your bulge makes a valiant effort to tear right through your clothes, writhing violently, and impossible to miss as you groan deep in the back of your throat.  You shiver again, licking your lips, but the rasp of your tongue provides no relief, and now he's not even  _pretending_  to look away from your crotch.

"Normally I'd discuss a few terms, but if I remember correctly, you weren't much for talking when we last spoke, and you don't look much better _now_." He seems to be thinking out loud, but either way, you make a strangled noise as he beckons you closer; your knees feel like they're going to give out any second, and every step makes you worried for the integrity of your undergarments and everything over them.

You're not sure when you end up in front of him, or when he stands up again, but you're _very_  aware of him tangling his fingers in your hair, your knees finally buckling with just the slightest push from him. You could resist, easily even; you can feel a measure of strength in his grip, but nowhere near enough to overpower your own. Your strength would more than outmatch him now that you're facing him healthy and whole as you are.

But it's so good to let him lead, and this is what you wanted, isn't it?

He looks down at you, brushing hair from your eyes. Your vision swims slightly in the low light, his face shadowed but for the brilliant red of his irises. They narrow as he smiles, and you focus on that, on the heat of his hands as he cups your chin, on the way his grip tightens against your scalp and sends tingles all the way down your spine.

"So we've come to this." He growls. "Guess you got me where you wanted me anyway. Question is, what do you want now that you have me?"

You're sure you must be making a small puddle by now, not all of it sweat.

You breathe in, sandalwood and pheromones, your knuckles white where you grip your thighs.

"What if..." The thrill of it threatens to push you over the edge just like that, but you rein it in as hard as you can, focusing on forming the words. All the while, your bulge is steadily pushing through the waistband of your pants, straining for some kind of friction. The very _thought_  of what you're saying is driving you crazy. "What if I wanted you... to tell me what I want?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's a wry little smile on his lips. The next moment, your vision goes double as your eyes roll up, your breath catching in your throat. You can feel him pressing- _something_ \- against the base of your bulge, not enough to hurt, not yet, but enough that you're intensely aware of it.

"Let me make this clear to you." He says. Your throat is bared now, you can feel every swallow you make as his fingers go from your jaw to around your neck; his thumb presses just under your chin, a point of body-warmed steel at the tip. "Much as I'd like to take out all my work frustrations on you just like that, I don't fucking know you, and you don't fucking know _me_. When I ask you to tell me something, before I start smacking you around like the wretched weirdo you are, I need you to tell me where the lines are."

You croak. You think it might have been an attempt at a moan. His foot leaves your bulge and your hips try to follow after him; he hums at that, somewhere between curious and amused.

"I'll file that away for later. Now..." This time he tugs you lower so you're sitting on your ankles, his tone poisonously sweet. "You understand why I can't just boss you around, right?"

There's a different kind of tremor to it this time, and you're not sure what it is, but in the heat of the moment, you can't think of anything but his touch; you're too caught up in this now, caught up in the way he holds you like he could tear your head from your shoulders and looks at you like you're worth more than your death. You have no doubt that he remembers how to snap a neck as easy as he knows how to caress one.

Your voice trembles as you speak; it comes out a growl all raspy and harsh, so much desire in it that it shocks you, and for a moment the look on Karkat's face tells you it shocks him, too.

He pauses, and this time shifts his grip to your broken horn. You catch a shiver going through him, the dull pressure of his hand flattening the sensory hairs electrifying you as he kneels down in front of you, mouth just barely brushing across the skin of your throat..

"Say that again." He commands. A lowblood- a _mutant-_ daring to address you in such a way, and it's making you _wet_.

You obey.

"I want you to _use me_."


	4. Pony Rides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd put in a thumbsup but I don't know how.
> 
> Big note, Karkat's teeechnically on top here? Like he's catching but he's sitting on Equius so idk if "topping from the bottom" is accurate, because he's definitely in charge here.

Even as wide as his pupils had already been, as close as you were looking at him, his pupils dilate with what you hope is desire. If nothing else, he isn't pulling away from you; you can hear his breathing coming a little more deeply, and you're _terrified_.

Or maybe not. You're tense, yes, but your breathing quickens with excitement, with anticipation. Your fingers flex against your thighs, and the fabric of your pants has never before felt so fragile and yet so udderly- _utterly_ \- constricting. It's a wonder that you still have this much control over yourself when everything so far has been an exercise in destroying your composure.

His breath is sweet with the fruit he'd been eating, warm against your cheek. His tongue- oh, goodness, that really is his tongue- drags across the shell of your ear, followed by his teeth.

"Alright, I can do that." He says. Your breath stutters a little as you feel one of his hands finally, finally, wrap around the base of your bulge, even if it's through the fabric of your clothes. "If I'm gonna use you, though, I need to get all this out of the way first. Think you can strip without popping every seam in this unfortunate outfit you're wearing? I think not!"

You feel the buttons being undone on your waistcoat. When you try to move, he smacks your chest; lightly, but you get the message and bring your hands back down as he chuckles.

"Fuck, it's like you came her expecting dinner _without_  the show. Who comes to a brothel wearing something they have a hard time getting out of? Or maybe it's your masochism showing through; do you _enjoy_  getting so worked up you have to have someone undress you?" You make a strangled noise as he slides your waistcoat off your shoulders, every movement precise and methodical. "Don't look so surprised, I do this for a living. Prospects in the Empire aren't great for trashbloods like me."

Something aches in you at that; not pity, it burns too hotly to be pity, but you still feel like he deserves more than he got- if only because of how poorly it reflects on you that he didn't. You look down while he undoes the buttons of your shirt next, practically having to peel the fabric off your skin, and somehow it makes it all at once harder and easier to breathe.

He sniffs, lips curled up in contempt. "How much did you spend making sure those scars of yours healed as badly as possible?" He asks. You bristle as he trails his fingers up a long, raised gouge along your side, a pocked, ugly thing that warps the flesh around it; you remember that one, the one that had nearly killed you by the time he'd found you. The sudden flash of indignant shame shocks you, worse when he smiles. "You need to speak up or all I'm going to do is give you a handjob and get on with my life. You're not the only one I plan to have in my room tonight."

You grab his wrist- it's slender enough that your fingers easily go all the way around, feels almost brittle in your grip- and even as he growls at you, you pull him closer.

"Do you really remember me?" You ask. You don't grip any tighter, you don't dare, but you don't give him any leeway to slip his hand from your grip anyway. "Truly, do you remember? Or are you going through the motions?"

"Oh, I remember you alright." He hisses. You search his face for hesitation, or deceit; something that will tell you what you want to hear. All you see in him is defiance of all that you stand for, and just as it did three sweeps ago, it leaves you boiling over now. "You're the same as you were then, you know. You're still an arrogant, casteist prick with control issues and not enough fucking _spine_  to tell me what you want. Except now you think just because we're back in the Empire and I'm some common _tramp_ I have to play along with whatever you want by nature."

You're suddenly left reeling, gasping for air- you let go of his wrist and clutch your throat, feel where his knuckles bruised the exposed flesh. You realize you're looking up at the ceiling, and more than that, he has you on your back. Your legs are folded under you in a way that makes it, not impossible, but at least anatomically improbable, to escape him as he straddles your waist.

"Let me tell you something, _Lieutenant._ " He hisses over you. You're intimately aware of him crouched right over your bulge, the length of it trying to rut against his thigh; just a little lower, if he just cants his hips a certain way, you could be grinding against the searing heat of his nook. "I'm giving you what you want because you're buying my time and my attention, but you are _not_  buying _me_."

"I..." You what? Your face aches with how hard you're blushing. "I never meant to buy you."

He sneers. Your brain stutters, light and sound fizzling and fissuring where thoughts should be as he rolls his hips down and drags himself up the length of your bulge. A second later your thoughts come back to you and you realize you were just moaning as he grinds against you. 

"You came swanning in here like you should matter to me, or like you were _owed_  something just because we'd met before I got here. Well, shit, I've had repeat customers come in week after week, why should you matter to me after three goddamn sweeps?" 

He leans over you, and you feel the sweat trickling down the side of your face as his breath rolls over your lips. "I have friends, a great matesprit, and things to be doing besides this. What do you have to offer besides a bad attitude? Besides memories of a time and place I really, really wanted to forget?"

He doesn't actually give you time to answer that question before he's sitting up again, and there's something mildly upsetting to you about how his own bulge isn't out while he does this. With your hands free- you just about forgot that they were free the entire time really, you were a bit distracted- you place one on his hip and guide the other to his still-stiff bonebulge. 

You feel his thighs tense around you, a twinge in the muscle under your hand as you rub your thumb over the slit, trying to coax his bulge out. If you're surprised that he lets you, well, you're going to pretend you aren't; you have to focus if you don't want to hurt him, though it doesn't feel like the hard plate over his bulge is going to recede any time soon. He isn't grinding against you anymore, really he's just sitting on you, but he watches your every move. After about a minute or so, he shakes his head.

"If this is your attempt at getting my interest, then I'm sorry to disappoint, but this is actually killing any kind of mood for it that I had in the first place." You pull your hand back as if burned. It certainly stings enough for that, and that he looks at you with something approaching genuine pity only makes it worse. "Just let me-"

"You just can't make this easy, can you?" You snap. He at least looks a little taken aback by that, but the pity doesn't leave his face. You feel a snarl building in the back of your throat. "You rescued me from a ditch, guarded me through the worst of my recovery, and then brought me back to the Empire in shame. I could respect and resent a troll like that platonically, perhaps, or let such unseemly desires fizzle out on their own, but then you disappeared so shortly after the return that by the time I'd fully recovered, there was no way to even the score. Do you know what that's like?"

You feel a sick kind of satisfaction in seeing the pity burn out as you speak; if he's getting tired of you, he's at least going to want to shut you up, right? You grin and tighten your hold on him, not enough to bruise but enough to keep him where he is, as he digs his claws into your chest.

"It's _maddening_." You growl. "And I spent the past three sweeps looking for you because of it."

He laughs, sharp and merciless. There's something different in the air now, a different tinge to the pheromones clogging your lungs; you breathe deep and shudder with need.

"You should have picked up a fucking hobby." He says. "It would have been a better use of your time than getting your bulge in a knot just because I didn't want more attention from trolls looking down their snouts at me."

"You certainly made the prospect an attractive one." You can see the faintest sliver of red peeking out from behind his sheathe now, and you grin. Your legs are a little cramped, unfortunately, so you're staying on the floor for a while longer, but you can use your hands to pull him flush to your bulge, drinking in the little gasp he makes as the tip catches against the seam between bulge and nook. "But evidently my diligence has been rewarded."

"Not yet it hasn't." He takes hold of your horn again and your eyes go wide as he squeezes at the hornbed, his thumbclaw digging in just enough that it makes the world narrow down to that single point of pain. "That said, I still think we've spent enough time fooling around, and I'd like to remind you that I still have better things to be doing."

He keeps his claw there, though doesn't dig it in any further, as he pulls your head up at an angle that strains your neck. You realize he's forcing you to keep your eyes between the two of you, where he's straddling you, where your bulge lies twitching and trapped between his thighs and the wet heat of his nook. He raises himself up on his knees- your neck protests the movement- and you're transfixed body and mind as he spreads his nook open with his free hand and your bulge squirms towards the warmth of its own volition.

He lets go of your horn and your head hits the wooden floor with a _thunk._

You're pretty sure your unbroken horn just gouged a small dent into the wood, and it rattles you down to your clenched, grinding teeth.

But good grief, now that you've gotten this far you really don't think there's any _chance_  of going back. You gasp as your bulge finds the first bend in his nook, grinding into the curve of it as he swears above you. Your claws- you have to mind them as you hold him, bringing him down on the length of your bulge while your nook just about ruins your trousers, while the heat of him tightens around your bulge and he trembles in your hands.

You can feel fluid puddling under you, under your legs. So much for keeping your clothes clean throughout this encounter, and you're sure your shirts aren't going to survive this either. You'll have to have them burned, or dyed your color entirely.

"Hh- _fuck_ -!" He's shaking all over as he sits there, trying to get used to the size; you lick across the points of your teeth at the sight of his bulge partway out of its sheathe, and you know it's a response to having _your_  bulge in him, but it makes yours twist inside him anyway. You yourself aren't moving all that much, focusing on breathing and just _feeling_  him.

When he _really_ starts to move, you dig your claws into the floor, leaving more gouges in the wood so you don't leave them in him. He laughs, breathlessly, bouncing in your lap; the wet sound of him taking you mingles with every shuddering gasp, every faint, metallic ring of his cheap jewelry rattling together. You force yourself to look at him, at the way he grips his bulge in one hand- the rings discarded now, scattered somewhere across the pillows- and twists his wrist to stroke the blunt length of it. You can almost see the outline of your own bulge behind it, squirming under his skin.

"You wanted me to use you, right?" He purrs. You nod, mouth hanging open; you don't even have it in you to speak, and he shivers from his horns to his toes. "Yeah, that's right; you said it yourself, practically begging me for it. Fuck, I wish you could look at yourself right now, you look like you're about to burst a vein."

You certainly feel like you're going to burst. You try to say as much, but your tongue flops uselessly against your teeth in a mess of sex noise as he takes you all the way to the base. You're a freak of course, you _know_  this; your bulge is disproportionate to the rest of you and what could have been a point of pride in your younger days is more of an inconvenience now. But the way he takes it, you'd never know- and that only makes you want him more.

"Do you want to come?" His voice drips through your mind, toxic and sweet, burning with every word.

" _Yes,_ " It's the only thing you can say, hoarse and needy and utterly ruined. _"Please._ "

He smiles and rides you harder, skin slapping on skin; it's a testament to his skill as a courtesan that he moves like this with such ease, brings you to an orgasm so deafeningly hard that you feel your scream more than you hear it. 

You're set adrift, your vision blanking out. You can understand why some humans liken it to dying, beautiful in its violence.

You're not sure when you come to, but you're still lying where you were when you do, so it can't have been that long. Your eyes focus on him as he stands, hissing in pain as he disentangles himself from your prone body. Your bulge must have gotten in deeper than you'd thought.

Royal blue dribbles down his legs, splotches- splatters, really- staining you and the floor. There isn't a hint of red to be seen, and his own bulge is still writhing in his grip.

"You..." You swallow, thickly. "You didn't finish."

"No, I'm done. You got what you wanted." He winces as he walks- limps really, to a chair in the corner of the room, silhouetted behind a screen. You hear water being poured into a basin, hear him dragging a cloth through it and wringing it out. "If you want to come back, that's on you. You know where to find me."

The silence that presses in on you is suffocating. There's a knock on the door.

"That'll be Dave." He says, then pauses. "Strider, you know. He'll get you cleaned up and out of here, unless you want to stay for a couple more shows."

He doesn't even sound tired. You feel like you've been put through a literal wringer, every ounce of fluid and vitality squeezed out of you in one evening. You swallow again, and pick yourself up, just as the door opens. It is indeed Strider, still wearing his crow mask, offering you a towel.

You look to Karkat again, or his shadow against the screen at least, and stand. It's a bit awkward leaving the puddle where it is, but...

No, you have to go. 

Strider does indeed get you cleaned up, somehow gets your clothes cleaned up faster than you wash yourself- you have to admit, The Menagerie's facilities are impressive in their attention to detail- and a discreet carriage is called up to take you home. You couldn't bear the thought of spending another moment in the place.

But in the safety of your own hive, once you're home, you know it’s no use.

You're already making plans to go back.


	5. Corvidae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, DaveKat.

It's been approximately an hour since he left and you're still reeling at the sheer amount of blue that ended up staining the wooden floor. You are currently Dave Strider and really fucking glad that you aren't in charge of actually mopping up messes like this.

"That guy sure is a piece of work." You say to yourself, as Marsti finishes up scrubbing up the last remnants of troll cum and goes on her way. Presumably, she's going to take a break, but you know a break for her involves scouring the rest of the brothel for messes to clean up. You turn your head to look at Karkat, or rather the shadow he casts on his changing screen. "I almost feel sorry for him; doesn't sound like he gets out much."

"Tell me about it." He grumbles, pushing aside the screen. He's cleaned up now, wrapped in a loose, gauzy robe, and it flutters gracefully around his thighs as he flops ungracefully across your lap. "Fuck, I'm sore. I'm starting to remember a lot of why I only fucked him all of once before this, and I might have been better prepared last time."

"Are you gonna need ointment for that? Pretty sure we just stocked up on muscle creams." You absentmindedly rub a hand across the lines of ink between his shoulder blades as he purrs, your fingers running across the dips and patterns flowing outwards from the base of his neck. Flavored vapor curls out of your mouth and from the hookah pipe in your other hand. "I get that the whole year or so you were there was something you'd generally prefer to never have to speak of again, but I'm still surprised I never heard of this guy."

"Please, it took me half a sweep to hear about your _most recent_  ex, and Lieutenant Zahhak wasn't even that." He rolls his shoulders, the stippling that makes his tattoos warping with the movement like shadows. "What are you smoking, anyway? I thought you didn't smoke while you were working."

"It's just fruit water, that hardly counts." You hold the end of the pipe closer to him so he can take a sniff, and he wrinkles his nose and pushes it away. Your hand drifts lower, to the curve in the middle of his back where the tattoo ends, and you take a moment to really appreciate how that tattoo subtly points down to that glorious ass before you shift the topic back around. "Also you're changing the subject."

"Well maybe I'm changing the subject because I don't want to talk about it!"

You snort, and he rolls off of you, glaring; it's a half-hearted enough glare that you can push a little further still, making grabby hands at him while he scoots over to lie across something more comfortable than your bony legs. "Come on, don't go now; we never get to do the whole heart-to-heart thing when we're working, and I know you're all over that shit like ants on a bottle of syrup."

He gasps in mock offense. "Who are you and what have you done with Dave Strider? Normally if you want to be emotionally open it takes a blood sacrifice on a full moon."

"Yeah, but you're missing out on a prime opportunity to tell me how bad someone was in bed, and I know for a fact that you love trash-talking your customers, so I don't see why this Zahhak guy is any different." The look on his face when you say that actually simmers down, and that's about the point that you realize you might have said the wrong thing. You puff on the hookah pipe a couple times, exhaling the smoke through your teeth, and crawl towards him to tilt his face up. "Hey, come on. If you really want to drop it, I'll drop it, but nobody's listening right now but me, okay?"

He looks up at you with a glare that could curdle milk, but the tension in his shoulders loosens just a little bit, just enough that you know you're getting to him. He still makes an exaggerated pout at you.

"I want you to know that if I trash talk his performance tonight, it's entirely because he was a bed starfish with delusions of grandeur, and not because you tempted me into it." He huffs. "Now scoot a little to the side so I can bitch from the comfort of a better seating arrangement than all by my lonesome over here."

"There we go." You lean back in the pillows again and he snuggles up against your side. Looks like you're _probably_  not getting laid tonight, but this is what you do for someone you love (and also he's still wearing nothing but a gauzy robe so you at least get to appreciate the view.) "And he's a bed starfish, too? Guy's a real charmer. Bet you the ladies are just dripping off that motherfucker, like straight produced out of nowhere to fawn excitedly all over him about whatever it is any of the girls can see in a guy like that."

That gets a hideous wheezing noise out of Karkat, which you didn't even know trolls could produce, but somehow that only makes it more endearing. If you have any work that has to be done, you can do it later or tomorrow.

"Let me count the fucking _ways_." He says. The laugh that comes out of it sounds outright bitter. "Yeah, I never really talked about this, and I'm actually having kind of a _real fucking time_  of figuring out where to start. I guess it's like, I kind of genuinely thought he was an idiot. He was blustering about how I left him to stew in his frustration or some shit in that general direction, but that's not exactly how I remember the whole thing going down."

You pet his hair, careful not to stray too close to the horns. Karkat doesn't much talk about his life before you two met, or about his life in the Alternian military in general; you can imagine all sorts of nightmare scenarios for why this guy is such a point of contention and you're not sure how you'd feel either way if the reality measured up or fell short.

You shrug. "How what whole thing went down? I don't exactly have context here, and the more mysterious you are about it, the more I'm going to assume I should head on over there with one of those old prop swords we have lying around and shove it up his-"

"Hey, you are _not_  putting Kanaya's hard work up any of his orifices, you got that? And besides, he was... ugh, how do I put this." Well shit, you know that tone. You're about to get in the shit now. Karkat rubs the back of his neck and you're not sure if now is the time to actually fondle those horns or not; you're curious but you don't know if you're _that_  curious. "...I'll have to explain a few things first."

Crisis averted, maybe.

"Alright, explain." You say. You take a much longer drag from the hookah this time, blowing a couple rings into the air. "We got the time and the privacy in here for once, you got me all ears."

You watch the rings dissipate as Karkat speaks. Somewhere in there is an explanation of Alternian military structure that you can't bring yourself to really pay attention to, and vivid, scathing detail about how much his superiors sucked and he had no idea why he'd wanted to be a threshecutioner when he was a wriggler. At any rate, you're not entirely sure why he has to start there, but then he gets on to a specific assignment he had.

"I'd been on a cramped, smelly _rowboat_ of a ship with a hundred or so other trolls getting up in each other’s faces and dealing with the stress of running a ship for two whole months by then, so I guess I was pretty excited to be out of it by the time we actually got where we needed to go. So much so in fact that when the opportunity arose to find and _dispatch-_ " Quote and unquote he goes, fingers hooking in the air. "-a lost officer suspected of treason, I jumped at the chance just to stretch my walkstubs. And, hey, they used to suspect you of treason if you went for a piss a little longer than you strictly had to, so maybe it wasn't just to actually look for and potentially murder a guy. Maybe I just wanted a little breathing room without all that just waiting to come down on my obviously forsaken nugbone."

"Understandable, continue." You were just getting tired of being quiet there, and also the hookah's pretty much full of plain, nasty smoke water by now. Maybe you actually should have filled it with something more interesting than cranberry. "I'm still not sure where and when he gets in on the picture. I'm guessing he's the guy you were sent to basically hunt down?"

"You got it." He sighs, tilting his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes. You should probably get this one replaced, now that you think about it; it's getting a bit lumpy, but it seems to be Karkat's favorite so you'll have to ask later. 

When he opens his eyes again, it's like he's looking ahead into something you can't see and he doesn't like what he's looking at one bit.

"I was given instructions on where to look, yeah, so were three other trolls, but that's all they really wanted to spare and that meant we didn't see each other at _alI_  while we were searching.  I actually went all the way out there with a bag of supplies- a little one, because I'm willing to bet they were trying to get rid of me, too- and I got lost as  _fuck_ for gods know how long. "

He takes a deep breath.

"I ran into Zahhak by literally stepping over what I thought was his corpse."

Well that definitely escalated quickly. He laughs, but in a way where you can see him cringing.

"Looks like he'd been left there for a few days, I don't know if someone else we knew was trying to get rid of him or he had some ideas that involved getting lost in the ass-end of the Americas, but if the ants and leeches didn't kill him, the fever probably would have if I was a little bit later."

"... Well alright then." You rub your palm over his shoulder and his upper arm, setting aside the hookah pipe so you can just sort of enjoy the dubious honor of hearing this story. "And this is the part where you tell me he was an absolute tool who refused to die, right? Got on your nerves while you were dragging him back to camp?"

"Nope." Karkat rolls his eyes. "If it weren't for him potentially getting off to dying at the time, I may have not found him entirely. I only figured out he wasn't a corpse because he made some horrifying approximation of a troll noise, and then I realized, well shit, I guess I'm gonna have to kill a guy after all."

He goes quiet. You can guess.

Luckily or unluckily, you don't actually have to guess.

"The thing is he was just... pitiful. There, I said it. He wanted so badly to die in service to the Empire and this was his way of doing it, going out and catching some kind of heinous bug parasite is definitely the way to go apparently. I don't know what his reasons would have been if he hadn't been delirious, but I couldn't fucking kill him." 

He actually looks kind of distraught. You're about to stop him from continuing, but it keeps going like he'd been holding onto it for a long time. 

"I just couldn't. I don't know why; I'd been preparing my whole life, up to that point, to have to do something like that and get a promotion. It should've been a fucking _honor._  But he was just..." You have to admit, this part makes you squirm, just a little. There's something chilling in the way Karkat talks about this, even though the idea of him having any kind of blood on his hands is something you'd thought you'd reconciled with a long time ago.

Some part of you is thankful, another disappointed, that you don't have to address that when Karkat eases into the next part at long last.

"I don't know what stopped me. Maybe I felt like he wasn't going to make it anyway, or maybe... Well I'm not proud of it, but maybe I wanted to just pack up and go." He shrugs. "Doesn't really matter, because he said something at the time that just made me fucking snap and I decided, you know what? No, fuck this guy. He's not dying today, and against all possible better judgement, I'm not going back to camp!"

You card your fingers through his hair as he gestures to the ceiling like he's swearing to it specifically, though you find yourself smiling at the image, because right now you're too chill to laugh. Also, laughing might make Karkat stop telling his story. "So you actually stayed out there in the middle of Ass-end, Nowhere and took care of this guy?"

"Long and short of it, yes." He sighs, sinking a little deeper into your arms and the dubiously comfortable embrace of the cushions. "I didn't think it would come back to bite me in the ass like this."

There's something he's not telling you. The look on his face is entirely too screwed up in concentration for this sudden bout of quiet to be anything else.

But whatever, you're an adult; you can deal with not knowing the gritty details, if only for now. You draw him closer and run your tongue along the inner curve of one of his horns, and he shrieks in surprise before you wrap your lips around it. The texture is still overall unpleasant; the sensory hairs are surprisingly soft, but who really wants a mouthful of horn fur? But then he melts against you as you suck, and you know what, maybe it's worth the textural nightmare of having fur on your tongue.

"That's fucking disgusting, what are you doing?" He says, voice hitching on something like a purr. One hand curls in your shirt. "Keep it up and I might do something stupid with _my_  mouth _._ "

Oral from your dangerously fang-equipped boyfriend, well, don't mind if you do. You smile a little around the horn in your mouth and suck until you hear a full, throaty moan; only then do you pop off, making sure to drag your lips (ugh) across the most sensitive hairs at the end. The way he looks at you could probably set your pants on fire from the sheer amount of _unf_  you just felt concentrate within and around the area of your dick.

"You mentioned he also didn't get _you_  off..." You waggle your eyebrows, licking your own lips. "Want me to take care of that?"

His eyes go half-lidded, his pupils going dark and wide. God he's beautiful, and he's about to go down on you, you have no idea what you did to deserve this but you gotta do it again. You rub your thumb over the inner curve of his horn again as he brings himself lower, and you think, yeah, you could definitely spend an hour or five in here before you have to deal with everything and everyone outside. 

"We'll take turns." He growls, hungrily, as he undoes your pants and slowly pulls out your cock. His touch practically burns, but in a way that leaves you panting for more, as his tongue rasps against the underside of your dick and his eyes stay on yours the whole time.

He winks, the little bastard, and starts fucking his throat on your cock.


	6. Corvidae: Rooks And Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still DaveKat, will switch it up in the next chapter probably.
> 
> Also I finally caught up to the daily target wordcounts! (Let's see how long that lasts.)

You almost can't handle having Karkat's mouth around your dick no matter how many times it happens. You moan and swear and generally make a whole lot of nonsense noise as your fingers thread through his hair, less to guide him along and more to show appreciation as mindless, needy mumbling leaks out of your mouth.

It's not just because of the associated danger of course, even if you honestly do get off to that sort of thing, and not even just that you know he gets a lot of practice in- though maybe not all that much practice from what he tells you. Really it's because of the sheer _carefulness_  in the way he handles you, like he's devoting all his attention to it. You'd think he was, if it weren't for the fact that he's got one hand between his legs, stroking his bulge in time with the way he sucks you off. 

You remember what he said about being sore, so you're not gonna try anything with his nook for the evening, but watching his hand slide wetly over the shining surface of his bulge is giving you ideas along the lines of _goddamn do I need that inside me right about now, I don't even care where._ It probably makes it out of your mouth, somewhere amid the sex noise. You're eloquent like that.

You tap the end of his horn a couple times to get his attention and he pauses just long enough to drag his tongue up the length of your cock again, making you shiver just watching him. You're not exactly close yet, so you're gonna be thinking about this for the next couple hours even if you don't go with a big, sloppy finish.

Human orgasms are a lot easier to clean up than troll orgasms anyway, so you really don't mind letting yours wait for a minute or so to find a pail. Loathe as you are to do it, you still have to untangle yourself from him to actually fish it out of the drawers.

"Rude asshole didn't even offer a pail, did he?" You mutter, as you bring the pail over to where Karkat's lying on his side with his hand still tangled up in his bulge. You savor the sight for just a little longer while you're walking over with the pail tucked under one arm; he says it's not exactly a sexy thing, pails and all, but it's definitely sexier for you than crouching over a literal metallic milk pail or getting chewed out by Marsti for being careless. If there's anything the trolls ever did right, it was the invention of the absorbent pailing-cushion.

Which also has to be just about _the_ unsexiest name for a cum sponge you've ever heard in your life, and that's with cum sponge already in the running.

God, if you think of that any longer you're going to lose the mood entirely. You drop the fuck pillow in front of him and start shucking off your shirt and jacket; pants can stay on but only because you need to get dressed again quickly and you'll be saving your own orgasm for when you actually have time to spend in here with him.

His pupils are so dilated they make his eyes look almost black, almost swallowing up the thin red rim of his irises. 

You finally drop to your knees and draw him into a kiss; and if you think to yourself it's kind of nasty that you can taste your own dick on his mouth, it wouldn't be the first time and it better damn well not be the last. One of his hands goes up to your hair and the other settles on your shoulder, one of yours is braced on his thigh and the other is taking its place on his bulge, and the needy little whimper he makes when your teeth nip at his lower lip makes the whole thing light your dick up like Christmas all over again.

Your tongue plunges past the oversized mess of his teeth and tangles with his as you jerk him off faster. When you feel him start to shake, you ease up, but only just so you can push him back a little, just enough that you have more space to work as you bend down and settle onto your elbows.

"Why, hello there." You say, in your best impression of a seductive temptress. You even bat your eyelashes up at him until he snorts and grabs you by the hair. He's got a whole thing about your hair, most trolls do; you can tell with how carefully he holds it even as he's shoving your face against his bulge. You chuckle and hold his hips so he doesn't have to keep doing that, sucking on the curve of the fat, vein-like ridge on the bottom. "Fancy meeting you here."

"You're the one who invited me." He mutters. You shush him, kissing higher up his bulge, feeling more than seeing the full-body shiver that follows immediately after.

Still, all good things must come to an end. Even if you'd really like for Karkat to keep going the way he's going and maybe even fuck your throat like he'd been fucking himself on your cock earlier, you're probably going to have a dick aneurysm if this goes on much longer and neither of you come. You're determined for it to be him to get that good nut if it's gonna be only one of you this time around, and you're going to put your money where your mouth is at least halfway literally in that respect.

"Hhah- nnngh- _Dave_ ," Sweet music to your ears. You swallow the first few inches of Karkat's bulge and _relish_  in the way he bucks his hips forward, head tossed back in pleasure when you swallow more. Your tongue lashes against the underside, coated in the taste of him all the way down to your tonsils, and his bulge twists and writhes in a way that almost sets you gagging as a result but it's so good you don't want to stop.

You've learned from experience that if you don't pull back at just the right moment it'll be a mess all around, so as much as you want to paw at your own dick, you keep your hands on his hips where they're in easy reach and just squirm a little as you suck him off. Your dick is probably leaking, God, you're so fucking hard. Can you cum just from sucking off your boyfriend? You're probably gonna find out, aren't you?

He ruts against your lips, trilling, moaning, little clicky noises in his throat and all the way down to his chest in whatever weird anatomical bullshit trolls actually speak in when things get hot and heavy, and it's actually really fucking hot to you how he has to resort to that. You wonder what he's saying. Probably a lot of the same bullshit dirty talk you come up with, but you're never gonna know so you just fill in the blanks as they stoke your ego and-

Oh, shit, right, he's almost there. His grip on your hair is almost painful now. You slowly maneuver your way off his bulge, the tip practically catching in your gullet because of how much it doesn't want to pop out of your mouth, fuck, is that what eating a live octopus is like? Well, okay, a life octopus probably wouldn't want to be so close to getting actually swallowed, but whatever. You finally manage to extricate his bulge from the confines of your throat, just the first few inches in your mouth now while you pump and squeeze with one hand and position the cum sponge (still gross) with the other.

You hear him make a strangled noise, his whole body tensing, his bulge stiffening in your grip. That's your cue, then; you pop it out of your mouth with a messy _schlorp_  and it's already leaking all over the place, getting ready to blow even as you angle it downwards towards the pail. He whimpers, hips jerking forward, a rope of pinkish-red slime arcing out of the tip while the base and pretty much all over it gets that much harder to hold onto.

"Dave-!"

You'll never get tired of hearing him say your name as he comes, breathy and almost reverent. His claws kind of hurt as he grips your upper arms, might even be drawing blood as they scratch lines across your skin, but that's why you made sure to take your shirt off, isn't it? Well, that and the fact that he's already gotten a spurt of warm slime across your face, dripping off the end of your nose. You lick your lips, shivering, moaning in turn at the taste.

He mutters something in Alternian. You think you might also see a bead of blood on his lower lip where he's bitten himself, shit, your oral skills must've gotten an upgrade while you weren't looking, or maybe he really was just that pent up. Slime drips off your chin as you sit up, still directing most of the oozing, twitching mess of his bulge towards the pail. It's a little amazing watching how eagerly the fabric just _devours_  the stuff, really, how do they make these things? Actually, wait, no, you don't want to find out.

Karkat breathes, and you lean in close and swipe the blood off his lower lip with a kiss. He makes a complaining noise at that, pawing at you a little, but hey, you had to deal with the taste of your own dick, he'll survive the taste of his own, slightly sweetish cum. Still, he wraps his arms around you and peppers your face with light little kisses, brushing his lips across the corners of your mouth and then pressing your lips together properly.

"Feel better?" You ask, as you pull away. He laughs, winded enough that he doesn't answer, and you can't help but actually fucking smirk. "Good. Take a quick nap, babe; I'll check in on you later and tell Aradia you're off the floor for tonight due to health reasons. The affliction in particular is dick too bomb to handle and you can't stand the thought of getting in anyone's lap for at least another week."

He groans, covering his face, even though you can see the smile curling behind his fingers no matter how hard he tries to conceal it. "I'm going to beg on my knees for you not to say it like that, please, for the love of all that is good and holy, do _not_  say that to Aradia fucking Megido."

"Well, since you asked nicely." You wipe your face off on a different, less expensive-looking pillow and make sure to mark that down in your memory for cleaning up with the rest of the laundry tomorrow morning. 

He yawns while you're getting re-dressed, and digs himself a little nest in the cleaner pillows, a little further off from you. You go around the room, dimming the lamps in the corners until they're barely embers, and you're almost completely certain that he's asleep before you leave the room so you make sure to do it as quietly as possible.

Once back outside, you take a deep breath and force yourself to think of the least sexy thoughts you can. It's a difficult task, because you're constantly surrounded by what may be the hottest cast of coworkers possibly ever concocted, but you're also an expert and a professional and you can tuck your dick back into your pants right before the next door opens up.

John Egbert pokes his bucktoothed face out through the door, before out comes the rest of his five-foot-nine self, already dressed for his show in a complicated-looking robe that he probably shimmies out of over the course of one song. His mask is tied to the side of his head for the moment, his glasses nowhere to be seen; you think he might not see you but then he squints in your direction and grins.

"Had a prior engagement, I'm guessing?" He says, picking up the hems of his robes like a society lady climbing up some stairs in a hurry. Wooden slippers this time, huh. They make surprisingly little noise under him. "You know you can't stop him from working the tables _all_  the time, or upper management is going to come down on your ass like one of your extended butt metaphors."

Well, that's true, but he doesn't have to say it. You shrug, walking with him; his show isn't even close to about to start yet, you've read the schedule for the evening like twice over, and he's already done all his makeup.

"Hey, you alright, man?" He asks. You realize you've been quiet this entire time.

"Hm? Yeah, no, yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." You run a hand through your hair but John doesn't look convinced; maybe you should start wearing your sunglasses indoors again. "What do you want me to say? I'm fine, dude, you like talking about feelings about as much as I do, which is not at all."

"If you say so. Just checking in." If you ever needed to look up the word _blithe_  in a dictionary, there would be a picture of John fucking Egbert right there instead of a description. They'd even have his name in braille under it. "You know where I am if you need to talk about it, I just don't promise to have any good advice, okay?"

"... Okay?" You don't know why that bothers you as much as it does. You don't get the chance to ask about it, because he disappears around the corner. Maybe he's just having one of his maudlin moods again, they happen every so often, right?

You get the sinking feeling that you're not as good at hiding your concern or your feelings as you'd like to tell yourself that you are. 

Or maybe you still stink like sex, which is entirely possible, too.

The rest of the night goes about as well as it usually does. There's minor mishaps, a handful of shenanigans, and at least a couple guests that get thrown out the back for being a little too grabby without tipping. Still, something isn't sitting quite right with you, even though you're pretty certain you have a handle on things as far as scheduling and food and everyone's salary goes. Aradia would chew you out if you were slipping in that regard. Your actual boss might do something worse.

It's the wee hours of the morning and you try not to think about that when you go to check in on Karkat again. He's still asleep, and things are winding down for the evening, and you think... fuck it. Maybe you just need a break. You've been working too hard.

You lock the door behind you and strip down to your underwear. It's a cool enough hour even with the window only partially open that you don't have a problem snuggling right up behind Karkat and spooning him to your chest. He mumbles in his sleep, eyelids twitching, but stays still; soon enough, lulled by the sound of his breathing and very distant, very drunk singing from the road beneath the window, you fall asleep, too.

You'll be awake a couple hours after sunrise like fucking clockwork, well before most of the others are. Maybe you'll be sorted out by then.


	7. wharf cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not actually an interlude, I'm just toying with story structure.

Working at The Menagerie is a lot less glamorous than some people make it out to be if you've got the day shift. That's right now in fact, where there's a lot of cleaning to do, and pretty much everyone has cosmetics to replace, costumes to repair, and medical treatment to undergo for a variety of reasons that won't be repeated here. It's only at night that things get all glitzy and salacious. 

Not that you're exactly complaining, but it does make it so there isn't really anyone to talk to in the building. The other courtesans are either sleeping in or actually awake and dealing with stuff like beauty regimens and performance rehearsals, and you love Dave and Jade and Jane, but they have more important things to do than shoot the breeze.

Your name is John Egbert and you're one of The Menagerie's live-in night workers. More to the point, you're a courtesan, a performer, and a waiter, so technically you don't have to do anything while the sun is up if you don't want to. There wouldn't be any harm in that.

Today, though, you've got a little cabin fever and- for once- the sun's out before the worst of the street crowds. Maybe you should take advantage of the fact and explore a little. Besides, what's the use of the salary you save up if you don't do anything with it?

You're probably just going to buy snacks and novelty trinkets with it, but you get a lot more out of going outside than just that. It's the experience! The street performers, smells wafting from nearby restaurants, the politically controversial jokes you overhear at the fish seller- well, okay, maybe you won't go to the fish seller. But the docks at least, and the less fishy streets. The floating market immediately comes to mind; there's always something to bring back from there, at least if you're looking for stories.

Thus decided, you put on some decent clothes- though still a lot flashier than necessary, you think- and head downstairs. 

You pass by Jade carrying armfuls of food and supplies from the delivery cart on your way down. Dave is standing right outside and talking to the driver- well, arguing, actually, or bargaining if you want to be generous with the way you talk about it. Jade hauls a sack of what's probably potatoes behind her, the spuds thumping up the steps before she pauses to rest. She wipes the sweat off her brow and sits on the sack before turning to you.

"Where are you headed?" She makes a face at Dave and the driver who’s gotten uncomfortably close to Dave's face, gesturing wildly while Dave himself doesn't seem to really give much of a shit. "Will you be back before or after these two get their business over with?"

"By the looks of things, _way_ after." You're still watching the driver gesture at all the food, and then you blink as Jade presses a coin purse into your hand. 

"Well you're not exactly going to be here while he bosses me around!" She says, by way of an answer. The fluffy white ears on the top of her head twitch sideways, and she grins, canines glinting. "Bring back those cookies that come in a fancy tin for me. Cinnamon-sugar if you can get them, but the butter ones are fine. You know about my allergies and I know how much change I'll be getting!"

"How much do those even cost?" You laugh, but she's already shooing you off. Still, it's not a far trip to the bakery she's talking about; you'll have time to bum around there if you remember.

~!~

The floating market is, unsurprisingly, floating between the docks. You've got boats the size of a respectable house, and boats the size of a single bed, and boats that can't even really be called just boats anymore because they're just so big, these great, steam-belching monsters that chug across the sea to trade. Sometimes they get attacked by whales, or pirates, or maybe actual sea monsters; at least that's what the crews of trolls and humans alike say when they're trying to impress you. 

You like to think you've made friends with some of them, even if you don't really buy their stories. If nothing else, you've built a pretty good relationship with a lot of them as a customer, and you've got the skill to laugh when they make a saucy joke about tentacles.

"Welcome back, John!" Calliope, for example. She smiles at you, or at least you're pretty sure it counts as a smile with the way her eyes crinkle in the corners; the whole thing with having a skull for a face makes it a bit tricky to tell. She leans her chin on the handle of her oar as you approach and pay up. "How's business been lately? You're looking well, so I presume The Menagerie is getting as many customers as ever?"

"I'd say we're getting a few more at least, or at least I am. I have to admit things are getting pretty crazy with the productions, too." The wooden boards of the marina creak underfoot as your weight shifts, and you wobble a little as you step onto Calliope's gondola. Her hand steadies you with a grip like iron on your shoulder, at least until you're seated across from her, and then she pats you and starts rowing.

All around you, the floating market is still setting up, but you've already got a pretty good number of people on the gondolas like Calliope, ferrying customers between shops or just shopping on their own, and a pretty good number of vendors already hawking their wares or trying to wave you over. Sailors throw cargo around with an ease that's downright hair-raising, sacks and crates practically flying between ship and water-level.

"Crazy how?" Her teeth glint brightly in the morning sun as she looks over her shoulder at you, her oar gliding through the water almost soundlessly. Most of her attention is pretty visibly on rowing, but she makes the conversation easy enough.

You shrug. "It's almost like we're a legitimate theater company sometimes." Water slaps the sides of her little gondola and fish scatter beneath the clear surface, flickers of silver and black against the murk. "If it weren't for all the customers who ask after the actors, I think we might actually make it as one."

"Have you ever suggested that? Becoming a legitimate theater company, I mean. I know a good number of your shows can get quite elaborate, from what you've said."

Huh. That's a thought, but you find yourself shaking your head. "I don't think it's that easy. Not coming from me, anyway; maybe from Jane if I can get her to spin it."

"Why don't you try?" You wonder if she ever gets tired when she's rowing, but she doesn't show it if she does, and the boat bobs and ambles along without ever slowing down or speeding up, as far as you can tell. Her voice follows the pattern, lilting almost. "You're a good enough actor, or if acting isn't quite your cup of tea, perhaps you could try your old magic tricks? You still remember how to do those, I'm sure; Roxy told me quite a bit about them."

"Roxy told you about that?" You didn't think Roxy _remembered_  any of that. When did you last show her so much as a fancy card shuffle? "What did she say?"

"She's never quite figured out the way some of them worked, actually, which is why I she spoke at length to me about them I think." Calliope actually titters a little, the sound _very literally_  birdlike. "Do you remember the one with the violin and the grandfather clock?" You do and her throat rattles with it again, not mocking so much as gleeful. "She's been trying to reverse-engineer it. Don't you think you want to inspire that sort of wonder in people again?"

You lean back and trail your fingers in the water. Fish suckle at your fingertips and then dart away.

"I'm not sure, now that you mention it. I'll have to consider it, I guess, but..." You frown. It'd be easier if Calliope didn't bring this sort of introspection to the table, you think. "Well, I just don't know. It'd be nice to think about, but I doubt we'd get to live as nice as we do if I pushed us to be an actual theater. It'd be more expensive, anyway."

"Hm, can't fault you that logic." The edge of the boat knocks against a raft bearing an awning and a jewelry vendor, wares displayed on a plain mat of reeds. Your eyes glance over carved hair combs and long strands of cowrie shells looped over and over, shining almost like porcelain, or actual pearls. The vendor eyes your wallet in turn as you browse.

Maybe for Rose? You point to one of the combs, a vicious-looking affair of engraved bone inlaid with some kind of oily black shell, and spend about five minutes naming prices to each other. When you two can agree, Calliope passes your money to the vendor and the comb to you. Rose would like that sort of thing, right?

You'll have to consider what you'll be getting for everyone else, too. Dave, Jane, maybe even Karkat actually; it's been a while since you just caught up with him, and you heard he'd drawn in a _really_  high-paying customer last night.

You don't just want to congratulate him. High-paying customers hit the hardest, and from  test the most limits.

But you brighten up again as Calliope keeps rowing, and instead of drilling you with more questions, she starts talking about home. That's easy enough to listen to, and you can keep an eye out for anything good. Other gondolas occasionally bump into yours, but it's definitely more peaceful and less crowded than a regular market.

"She's adopted another cat, a black one this time; poor thing was so scrawny when we'd found him mewling in the trash, and I didn't think he'd make it past a week but she'd worked her magic all over again." This time she rests the oar in the boat itself. You guess she gets tired after all. "She's named him Frigglish, after one of her novel wizards."

"I can never keep those musty old guys straight." You pause. "Though I guess she can't either."

"Cleverly said!" You're not sure if Calliope means that. It feels like the obvious joke, to you.

The rest of the market doesn't seem particularly interesting at the moment. You still have to buy Jade her cookies, too, and something for Jane and Dave, and Karkat if you can manage it, and- oh, actually.

"Hey Calliope, can you show me a store you like?"

"What _are_  you planning now?" You've got her now. There's genuine curiosity in her voice, past the teasing, and she wiggles a little in her seat, eyes twinkling hungrily, mischievously. "Do tell me, please? Pretty please?"

"Wouldn't that ruin the surprise? You'll have to be honest about your favorite." Your wallet weighs heavily with a salary you're just waiting to get rid of. You smile at her as innocently as you can. "It doesn't even have to be here in the market. You can take a break, right?"

"Oh, you- I couldn't. I shouldn't!" But you can see her wringing her fingers around the worn grip on her oar. It's only being kind when you take her clawed, bony fingers and shake a handful of coins into it- enough for three rides all the way around this market if you'd wanted it. You really have saved up since you'd last gone out, haven't you? And she's your friend- she needs a break. 

She looks at her hand, and then at you, and then at her hand. Her fingers close around the money and she grins, doing a little mock-curtsy despite wearing a sort of ragged suit.

"Well, if you insist..." She pockets the cash and slides the oar back into the water. "Alright, then. This way, if you please."

It's not like you can really direct where you're going, but she takes you to another corner of the market, weaving through rafts, ships, and under the docks proper until you're at a little sail boat that looks like it hasn't been properly sea worthy in years, to the point that other, newer stalls have set up shop around it, nimble little canoes and large, almost stage-like rafts. 

Still, it's brightly decorated, festooned with long strands of twine hung with colorful bits of... you're not sure, actually, but they sure are colorful!

The overall feeling leaves you weirdly at peace. 

Calliope brings her gondola around the side of the sail boat, where the mast has collapsed against a rock and the sail itself is sunk partway into the water, rotting into the sea. It looks kind of unsteady and dangerous, but you can see where a boulder jutting from the water pokes up under the sail itself; the mast is wedged in a cleft in it, as if on purpose.

You regard it for a moment, and the shops around it. She must mean one of these, right? "I don't think I see a-" 

Calliope whistles sharply and points almost skyward, and you see a scrappy-looking troll of indeterminate age and gender sitting on the roof of the little ship's single cabin. Calliope turns to you, you think, but you're watching the little troll shimmy their way down in a way you can only describe as- well, as Dave puts it- an acrobatic and generally hair-raising display of bullshit. 

"Nepeta here is the proprietor of this fine establishment." Calliope says, nudging you lightly. "I would like you to meet her, and also, if you mean to purchase something, let it be from here."

Her hair is wild and tangled, but otherwise remarkably healthy-looking, though most of it is stuffed under a faded blue cap with buttons for eyes. She dangles precariously from the railing, like any moment she's going to tip right into the water. Sinewy, alien muscle runs taut under the charcoal grey of her scarred skin.

She straightens up- sways for a moment where she stands- and then actually _launches_ herself at the gondola. You scream in surprise when she misses the mark and ends up in the water.

"... Hi?" You say. You poke your head out over the edge of the boat and she pushes herself back up to the surface with a gasp.

"The great huntress, has, purr-haps, misjudged the distance to her dear friend's boat." She says, spitting seawater. "If you would ever so kindly help a lady up?"

You realize she's talking to you and you offer her a hand. You very nearly pitch out of the boat as she uses it to drag herself in with you, dripping miserably. At least until Calliope hands her a towel that she'd stowed under the seats, which Nepeta gladly takes and uses to  _mostly_  dry herself off.

Catlike, olive-looking eyes regard you up and down, and she gets uncomfortably close as she sniffs at you. Her split lip stretches taut in a pleased smile, before she stands up in the boat- rocking it considerably, to Calliope's protest ("We _have_  just gotten you out of the pier, my dear!")- and does a theatrical bow.

"Nepeta Leijon, sir, she says, at your service." You notice a tail hanging from behind her, or maybe a belt? But it sways with a certain organic weight to it and you're not really sure what to say about that. She winks at you, her voice going a little quieter. "I purr-sume you and Miss Call-meow-pe here have come to me for business? Follow me, quickly."

Her tone bodes no argument. She hops quickly from the gondola to the slippery-looking jut of stone, gripping the sail, and scampers up the mast.

You look at Calliope, who's already folding up her trousers to make it easier to get on the stones.

"What did you just bring me to?" You ask.

You suddenly feel like your generous surprise has gone a little bit out of hand.


End file.
